


for the first time

by dancebreaknervous



Category: Bandom, Green Day
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Dreams, M/M, Not finished yet, Poly, questioning heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancebreaknervous/pseuds/dancebreaknervous
Summary: Mike Dirnt doesn't know what to do. He's just stuck- no sugar coating. He's stuck with a mind full of questions.





	

Mike Dirnt fucking hated fucking touring with two fucking assholes. Fuck it.

 

He blinked, being plunged into darkness as the street lamp he was sitting under went dark. It had only been half an hour since Billie Asshole Joe and Tré Fuckface Cool had abandoned his ass in the gas station and he'd already been splashed once by a passing car, making the cold of the night almost completely unbearable.

 

Not that he can use the fact he was throwing up as an excuse for being last out of the bathroom. He’ll just say that greasy-as-hell pizza in the suspiciously unadorned box Tré brought back at three in the goddamn morning stopped him up, which was actually a pretty good excuse. Mike looked up, eyes glinting in the approaching vehicle’s headlights, and he could tell from the fair distance it was his assholes (best friends). He clambered in, grabbing Tré’s face to hoist himself up instead of the handle, to the drummer’s anger. “Dude, what the fuck- cold hands! Cold as hell, don't touch me! Plus you're all wet, did you take a fuckin’ swim?” Tré scooted as far from Mike has he could, hair catching a passing light and looking almost glowing. Mike groaned.

 

“Ms. Subaru decided to give me a playful splash, asshat.” He could hear the anger dripping out of his voice, flowing away. Until Billie threw a bundle of dry clothes at Mike. Oh. No way in hell.

 

Tré was frowning and Mike realized that he had said that out loud. “I know you two hot babes are looking for a ride on Dirnt Central, but I’m keeping my clothes on,” he covered. Billie snorted. 

 

“You're getting the seat all wet!” Tré complained, perching up. “Fine,” Mike spat, crawling to the back.

 

An ordeal. That's what he could describe it as- a fucking terrible ordeal. He was jostled from his thoughts when a ssnnnOOOOREEee snapped him out of it. Billie’s head was tipped back, and Tré was laughing, waving a sharpie in front of his face and uncapping it. “Write ‘I love cock’,” Mike suggested, laughing, but Tré settled on ‘SPIT ON ME’. Mike huffed out a laugh, then moved to pull a cigarette out of Billie’s bag. Sweet Jesus, did he need one. Mike leaned out the slightly open window and blew frail wisps of smoke up towards the moon.

 

The first time Billie had played Coming Clean had practically been an event. The room fell silent, a deafening lack of sound crunching in on the guitarist.

 

“Uh.” Tré was reading the lyrics. “This is…”

 

“Genius,” Mike butted in softly. “What the world needs from us.”

 

“Rock is everything yet to be spoken,” Tré had mused, patting a trembling Billie on the back before distracting himself with fucking with his snare. Shitty kit broke every night.

 

By the time the words had really stuck with Mike, that his best friend was bi, he thought nothing of it for a week or two. Until one day, in the middle of jacking off, the long haired, short, perky punk girl behind his eyelids started shifting forms until he was Billie. Mike wasn’t sure what bothered him more- “he”, “Billie”, or the fact he blew his load faster then he had in months.

 

So Fantasy Billie became his own entity. He didn't even only use Fantasy Billie to jerk off- it was kissing and cuddling and happiness. It set in with him easily. He had a crush on Billie, even if he was constantly trying to reaffirm his fragile heterosexuality by thinking about women and pussies and that was getting a little tedious.

 

To add more shit to his plate, out of the blue, Fantasy Tré is there. Kissing Fantasy Billie and him and cuddling and those erotic moments were getting even more intense then intense, damnit.

 

It was healthy. It was only a sex thing, he guessed, before he was taking a shower and the water that curved over the huge (small) pocket of chub on his lower stomach that hung a quarter of an inch off his crotch. He immediately imagined Fantasy Billie making a face at his suddenly ugly body. It needed to go away.

 

Then the little victories started coming in like poker chips, notches in his bedpost. Skipped dinner by going to Billie’s. Pushed away Tré’s spicy curly fries. When he left for the road they'd all be hungry which meant there was less food when there was any. His portions were split between the two hungry men to his sides, who devoured it without thinking that the bassist hadn’t eaten. Why wouldn’t he eat?

 

Why? Mike should make a list. It’d probably be short, honestly, even if he imagines it as some long winding list of reasons why he hated himself. That would be a different list. No, it would be pretty fucking simply.

 

He’s fat  
He needs more muscle  
He needs a stronger jaw  
He needs abs  
He needs sharp hipbones  
He needs thin arms and legs  
He needs to be generally attractive in the unlikely case Tré or Billie decide that they might want to kiss him (crosses over to other lists)

 

Mike enjoyed lists, actually. They were relaxing, and burning them was satisfying, locking whatever it was in stone.


End file.
